Bruises
by UnderneathTheBridge
Summary: Severus Snape decides to keep a journal, with a specific purpose in mind. Very introspective and slighty angsty in parts. I'm working with an odd psychological theory here--please R and R.
1. Bruises

            I hit my shin against the bookcase in my office yesterday, and now there's a horrible purple-green bruise where the desk corner banged my leg.  I greatly dislike bruises.  No, Severus, you don't "greatly dislike" them, you _abhor_ them.  You'd think that I'd be conditioned to them by now.  When I was rather young, I would often receive large and disgusting bruises at the hands—and belt, and cane, and shoe, and other objects I've either forgotten or wouldn't care to list—of my father.  It's not he was especially vicious, though I suppose it's all relative—it's more than my skin is especially sensitive.  Therefore, I bruise easily.  Any barely credible therapist would tell me that I'm simply attempting to rationalize the painful trauma that I received as a youth, but you know what?  I don't have a therapist.  Whether I need one or not is debatable, but…I'm not getting one any time in the foreseeable future.  I'm too private for that sort of guts-spilling hanky-clenching navel-gazing.  At any rate, back to bruises. 

During my school years, I received many bruises.  Wands sometimes aren't enough when you want to send across the message that someone is _wrong_ and _bad_ and _not welcome_.  Also, I was very awkward and prone to tripping and bumping.  I still am, though it's not so pronounced as it was when I was going through puberty.  Those were difficult years. For so many reasons.  And then I was a Death Eater.  I'd like to leave it at that.  If I must say something, I'll say that it's very difficult being a Death Eater.  All these years later and I still can't talk about it.  The Dark Lord's gone, and I can't even say his name.  It's a weakness, and it's an idiotic one, and I know that I need a catharsis of it, but I just can't pull it off.  Oh well, it's not all that interesting anyways.  At Hogwarts, the bruises have been few, which seems to make each one all the more difficult for me to bear because they're so _unexpected_.  Let's take the example of the bookcase—I walk in, march up to in bookcase in order to find a certain spellbook, and I whack my leg against the side of the case due to sheer carelessness.  For a millisecond, there is nothing—then comes the gasping pain, and the tears in the corners of the eyes (that of course would never drop, I don't cry), and then the pain seems to spread and dull and after a while it is gone.  That part doesn't remind you of anything, it simply exists—you can only concentrate on the pain.  All else is blocked out.  I _suppose_ that's the appeal of self-induced pain, though how would I know? 

At any rate, for a while you're just fine.  You may even forget that you've been injured.  However, at a certain point, usually the next day, you notice the bruise.  And then you remember the pain.  It's not a clean thought like the first time around, it's sort of a torturous ghost, which I realize makes no sense but I can describe it any way I want so that is how I shall describe it.  But that's not nearly the worst part about bruises—oh, no, the worst part is that they all—look—the—same.  Therefore, you don't just think about the bookcase, your devious brain forces you to remember having your arm twisted by Sirius and being whipped by your father.  Every cut is different, which is one of the reasons I don't have a similar problem with scars and scratches—but bruises are unfair.  I don't appreciate being forced to think.  That's the point of writing things down and putting them in Pensieves—you can ponder the past at your leisure.  Well, now I'm off to bed—in the morning, the bruise will still be there, but I can be partially consoled in that it will go away soon.  But there will be more.


	2. Melancholy

            Well, it appears that I am keeping…I might as well admit it…a diary.  Or is it a journal?  I've never bothered to learn the difference.  Looking back at my life, you would have though that I'd have done this before, especially when I was a teenager.  I mean, isn't every angst-filled teenager supposed to keep a journal?  Oh, God, I can just imagine how it would have looked:  "Dear Diary:  They all hate me.  They all laugh.  I'm ugly and worthless.  I want to die, die, die die die…" And repeat endlessly.  I was not the deepest of youth.  Rather than interpret my surroundings, I preferred to wallow in self-pity and simply deal with base emotions…sort of like an animal, really, though I suppose that's a bit harsh. 

I suppose that there are two reasons I'm keeping a journal now—one is that I'm terribly bored much of the time, and the other is that I can sense that one of my melancholic periods is coming on and I'd like to deal with it better than I did last time.  I usually have a few of these periods during the school year—one always falls at Christmastime, I detest that holiday—and one brutal stretch of pseudo-despair never fails to take up my entire summer.  The last one I had was in February and lasted about a week, mercifully short—I got horribly drunk every night and made other rash decisions.  When the week was over, I looked back in disgust as I always do and decided that I wouldn't let myself behave like that again.  So, I fished out a blank book and decided to get a head start lest I get caught up in my depression and forget about the journal entirely.  I spent some time writing that entry…and, well, I enjoyed it.  And I enjoy this.  I guess I'm just suited for it.

I'm really very embarrassed about these melancholic periods of mine.  I've never known of anyone else having a similar problem—well, nobody as intelligent and well educated as I am.  I think it may be hereditary—I recall my mother retreating to her room for pieces of time—however, she had my father to contend with, and mine generally come without provocation.  My father was perpetually angry.  I remember very few times when he would smile and be kind to his wife and son.  I was always under the impression that I was an unwanted child, an accident if you will, and I'm still convinced that that was related to his anger.

At any rate, I got four hours of sleep last night, give or take an hour.  That's one of the signs that the melancholy is approaching— acute insomnia.  My troubles with insomnia began when I joined up with the Death Eaters.  Before that, I couldn't get enough sleep—I would have stayed in bed all day if I could have.  Being a Death Eater made me an insomniac, and when I did sleep I was plagued with nightmares.  I'm sure it had something to do with my long-buried conscience.  Well, I'm going to quit rambling now and attempt to get some sleep.


	3. Picture

Very tired. I wish that I could take Dreamless Sleep—but, of course, it's not meant for constant use and I've built up a resistance to it. Coffee, too, but I still chug it every morning out of sheer habit. That's the Severus Snape morning routine—arise, jump in a cold shower for ten seconds, coffee, robes, and brushing my teeth. Very mundane, very classic. My bruise is healing slowly. I had to hide my pounding headache from the students all day. One of those idiot Second-Year Hufflepuffs practically destroyed my classroom. Isn't life grand?

At least the new issue of _Potionmaking Monthly_ arrived today. I've got another article in there, on the adhesive properties of a newly bred mushroom. Of course, they didn't print my picture. They'll never print my picture, since I never bother to send one in. After every article, they print, "Severus Snape is the Potions Master at Hogwarts School and is a regular contributor to _Potionmaking Monthly_." That's it. I don't tell them anything else about me, either. There's not a whole lot more to say, frankly—I suppose they could state my age, and how long I've taught, and that I enjoy reading—but, honestly, who gives a damn? Not until I'm dead, they won't give a damn.

Getting off the morbid track—I need to watch that—I plan on cutting my hair tonight. I'm starting to look like Black—oh, who am I kidding? I mean my hair is starting to look like Black's. Except that mine is—as the students so eloquently put it—greasy. I suppose I don't pay enough attention to my hair, or any aspect of my looks, but it doesn't matter. I've got no one to impress and better things to do. Besides, the harder I tried, the more pathetic it would probably seem. Speaking of having better things to do, one of _PM_'s Letters to the Editor somehow found fault with a past article of mine. I must write a scathing reply while the insult lingers.


	4. Flying

Last night, I went out flying. I'm old enough to have acquired the skills to ride one safely at night, but on all other accounts I'm a horrible rider. I've been awful at flying since childhood. No coordination whatsoever. I've already written about my awkwardness, I believe. At any rate, I went out flying over the school, over Hogsmeade, over the countryside. I made the necessary precautions not to be seen, and it was very uplifting...I just realized what a horrendous pun that was. I certainly didn't mean to use it. But it was true. I try to avoid flying during the day—a pathetic self-consciousness. I've had too many bad experiences with flying—of course, I have refereed the occasional Quidditch match, but only when it was absolutely necessary. In all honesty, I don't even like watching Quidditch that much. I suppose, when I was younger, I had grandiose dreams of playing...but I've grown out of that. Still, I'd rather not watch unless Slytherin is winning.

I don't know why, but I can't stop thinking about the time I took Draco to visit his parents in Azkaban. For some godforsaken reason, he wanted me to come along—how do you say 'no' to a boy with both his parents imprisoned? And, besides, I wanted to look Lucius Malfoy in the eye, see for myself what his life had come to. I saw Narcissa as well—Lucius is serving life, but Narcissa's sentence is markedly shorter than that. She still looked horrible. Her hair, especially—it was tangled and matted. The dementors are gone now, but Azkaban's still a horrible place. When Draco was done talking to his parents, he came out to the waiting room and informed me that his father wished to speak with me. I was intrigued, so I went in. If I recall, this is how it went. I feel a need to put it on paper.

"Hello, Lucius."

"Severus. Let's cut to the chase—it's your fault I'm here, isn't it?"

"Why, Lucius, obviously this place is already adversely affecting your sanity. You don't seem to realize that the Death Eaters lost."

"Shut up, Severus."

"Lucius, it is apparent that I don't have to listen to you anymore."

"I'm here for life, you idiot. Nothing's changing that. At least let me know if you were spying on me."

"I'd much prefer to leave you dangling."

"Get over yourself, Severus. For my sake and yours. Big bad Lucius can't hurt you anymore, Sevviekins."

"Shut up. Do you have anything important to say or not?"

"Well, actually, I do...try to take good care of Draco."

"You're kidding me. You're actually concerned about the welfare of another human being? I'm astounded."

"For some reason, he seems to admire you."

"Hmm, perhaps that would be because I don't beat him?"

"Don't you dare accuse me of things you know nothing about."

"Oh, as if you didn't, you sick bastard."

"Just try and keep him from...making bad choices."

"Lucius, neither of us are very good role models in that regard. Besides, he's only at Hogwarts for one more year. After that..."

"Just keep in touch or something! It's not that difficult!"

"All right. But it's got nothing to do with you, do you understand that?"

"Stop blaming me, Severus. You made your choices."

"I didn't know what the hell I was doing. I didn't have the capacity..."

"Just take my son back to Hogwarts, Severus."

"I'll do that, thanks." I stormed out of the room, and on the way back to Hogwarts I asked Draco if Lucius had ever beaten him, and he said of course not but he didn't say it right away.

That was right at the end of his Sixth Year—only a few months after the war ended. And how abruptly it ended, too. One day, we all wake up and the Dark Lord's just gone. Potter finally finished the deed for good, however he did it. Potter's keeping it this massive secret. He's refusing to talk about it. According to Dumbledore, even he doesn't know how Potter finished him off. While I'd love to use this as proof of Potter's giant head, I can understand where he's coming from. I probably wouldn't want to speak of it either. The details, at least—I'd keep that a part of me. And besides, Potter still gets all the glory he wants—and he's taking all he can. Thank God they're making him finish out this year...or maybe not, because I have to teach him once a week. Gryffindor/Slytherin Advanced Potions. Fun for the whole family. His attitude, while not quite deplorable, is inadequate for such an advanced class.

But back to Draco—I suppose I will take care of him. In a sense. Mainly guide him—possible be a sort of mentor? Only if he wants one, though. I'm not sure I'll be a particularly good one, but at least I know what to do with him—I'll try not to turn him into me. I mean, who wants to end up like Severus Snape? Alone, unmarried, prone to depressive episodes...it's just not the right path for most people. It works relatively well for me, I suppose, but I don't think it's what Draco needs out of life. He has the opportunity for more acceptable things. He deserves to have a life that he's proud to tell people about—and he deserves to have people to tell it to. I'm not sure what I deserve...that's not the right word. I don't know what is.


	5. Sanctity

(Author's Note: Time for some reviewer thank-yous! Thank you: BekaJWP (you were so right, I'd completely forgotten to paragraph, I have issues with paragraphing), Emprezz Andromeda, duj (actually, no, but you're on the right track...I'll get there eventually, and if you're a psychology geek like I am you may have picked up on it already), procyonblack (you're so nice, thank you so much for reviewing more of my work and please keep reading!), Nemo Returning (keep reading, please, if you're lucky this might actually have a plot someday), Silverthreads (that's definitely what I'm going for) and Toe Nail of York. Please keep reading, all of you, and don't be shy about letting me know what you'd like to see...or if you think I'm totally running this mofo into the ditch. Now, onto the Snapery.)

Ahem. Here, I present my list of Things I Will Not Do in the coming days:

Drink to excess. Actually, I'm amending that: Drink. In the sort of state I'll be in, ad judging by past behavior, I can't trust myself with any sort of spirits.

Act oddly around the students. No ducking off in the middle of classes, no random outbursts, and I'll certainly attempt to grade papers to my fullest ability.

Bitch to Dumbledore. Yes, I've done it before, and I will not do it again. I come off horribly, and he's got more important things to worry about.

A certain activity which really does not merit discussion.

Ignore Draco entirely. I made a promise of sorts to his awful bastard of a father, and I intend to keep it. If he wants to speak with me, I will not push him off and I will try to serve his best interests.

There we go. All I have to do is remember those simple guidelines, and I'm fairly confident that I can deal with this internally. I don't want everybody and their second cousin knowing that I'm off. Am truly dreading the upcoming days...I'm becoming preoccupied with the most awful things. They come in flashes and waves, scenes from my life. Even the Death Eater memories are starting to weave in...and here's another, as I write this. Do I dare to write it? My subconscious is issuing me a challenge...and I shall meet it. Here goes. A failed raid, miserably failed, and...you win. No further. I can't make the memories tangible...and why should I? What will it do except cause me more grief? I can't even bear to put them in a Pensieve. I've only used a Pensieve once once, and how well did that one turn out, now? There was no way Potter could have gotten at the Death Eater ones, anyways—those I'd stored away the second Dumbledore roped me into Occlumency.

I'd only recently decided to store as many of the ones from school and childhood as I could, too...ah, the "dangling incident." Potter saw all there was to see of that one, really—it got broken up by a faculty member before James was able to remove my undergarments. Now that was an awful day. Potter invading the sanctity of my past...I threw him across the room with a strength I seem to constantly forget that I possess when needed. Hopefully, it hurt...no, that's an awful way to think. But it's true, I had clear intentions at the time. I like to think that I'm now above wishing bodily harm on others. And I never, honestly, _never_ wanted to kill with my own hands. "Will I have to kill anyone myself?" I told Lucius. "Only if you want to," he replied. And it was the truth, to an extent. I don't know what I caused...it was selfishness that made me leave. Sure, I was having moral conflicts, blah blah blah...but it was selfishness that got me out of there. It was what they did to me that made me think that maybe The Dark Lord wouldn't take care of his own. Maybe I'd be rejected again. Oh, goody, hip hip hooray, I'm writing about the Death Eaters. Three cheers. What a milestone. Imagine what could happen next. Maybe I'll wake up tomorrow the living replica of James Potter, next to a beautiful woman. God...is that what I really want?


	6. Choices

(Author's Note: I will be on vacation for a week without Internet access. Therefore, no updates for a while. However, I will keep working on this, so expect a substantial update very soon after I return.)

For the most part, classes today went reasonably well. Of course, I was not my usual dynamic and captivating self...but, seriously, I don't think that any of the students noticed anything. Except for possibly Draco. He's a very perceptive young man, despite that Malfoy veneer of guttural hatred. That's not the real Draco, that's his father manifested inside him. If there's one thing world doesn't need, it's another Lucius Malfoy. Lucius is the textbook definition of a sadist. At any rate, he said that he wishes to speak with me tomorrow—what _excellent_ timing. He's having problems with deciding on a career—not that he necessarily needs one with his family money, but a boy's got to have something to do. I've been trying to press him towards studying Defense against the Dark Arts, but his father obviously wouldn't approve. Too bad, because Hogwarts is fishing around for a new DADA teacher. One other than myself, that is—I've given up on that one. The one they've got now is only interim, and it shows. He's entirely inept.

It seems as if my every movement is an ordeal, as melodramatic as...I won't make excuses. Nothing I can do about it. But it's as if I have to try twice as hard as the people around me to flex a finger or speak a sentence. This is the most relaxed I've been all day...the journaling is undoubtedly beneficial. Been taking all sorts of potions, as I always do when I get like this—if they ever help, I don't notice, but I do it anyway. I appreciate at least having the illusion of control. Control, control, control...I'm always so fixated on control. I'm sure there's some reason why...ooh! I bet it's related to early childhood trauma! Five points for Slytherin, Severus!

You know, if I really wanted to I could blame almost everything on Daddy dearest. It's all the rage these days. While there's no doubt that all that influenced my choices and temperament...I got myself into this mess. Not Father, not Lucius, not Potter...I did it all. And here I am, accepting the consequences. Nobody by my side, and a hideous mark on my upper arm that might as well be burning. I cover it up in thick black robes, but I wish I could just gouge it out, peel it off, never have to look at it again. But I can't, and I've never been foolish enough to try...right. I've never been foolish enough to try. Of all the things I detest about my appearance—obviously that one's the worst.

It's not like I woke up one morning, looked in the mirror, and exclaimed, "Wow! I'm ugly!" It's more of a gradual acceptance. I suppose there are things that could be done to ameliorate it—a real haircut, perhaps, 'stepping out of that dungeon and getting some sun,' as Madam Sprout suggested once...and I've heard smiling absolutely _works_ _wonders_, but I'm not interested. Imagine me, strutting around the castle with a smile plastered on my face. I'd have to take great care not to stumble into Longbottom lest he die from shock. At any rate, I'll only become less attractive as I get older—I peaked, if you could call it that, when I was about 20. And so what? It doesn't bother me. I have more important things to bother me. So many things.


	7. Ghosts

I'm obviously doing a horrible job of hiding my condition. Two people in one day. Of course, it was much worse with Albus than with Draco...yes, Draco and I had our little meeting, in my office this morning. He did want to speak about careers, as predicted, but we didn't talk on it for very long. I was tense, on edge, preoccupied with meaningless drivel dredged up from my past...yes, exactly. Draco also didn't appear to be in the best of moods, but at least he was focused.

"Professor Snape, I...I'm still thinking about the Defense Against the Dark Arts position. It sounds fantastic, but..."

"But what? There should be no buts. It would be spectacular for such a young man to have a teaching position at Hogwarts."

"Well, um...my father..."

"Draco, your father is stuck in Azkaban for the rest of his natural life for committing multiple unspeakable crimes. If there was ever a reason to disregard someone's opinion..."

"And my mother...she'd be..."

"Your mother is almost as awful as your father. I know from personal experience."

"She is not awful." A few seconds after that comment, I snapped back into the present. I had been somewhere else entirely, mentally.

"What was that?"

"I said, my mother's not awful."

"Whatever you want to think, Draco...you're still maintaining that Lucius was a good father, are you not?" He sneered at me. I loathe that little sneer.

"It's the truth." I felt it necessary to change the subject, because we'd go nowhere with that one. I'd seen him terrorizing a couple Second Years in the hallway earlier that morning for no apparent reason. While I'm not exactly a shining example in that regard, there's something about bullying that...obvious reasons.

"Draco, about your bullying. I saw you with those Second Years the morning. Second Years? And Hufflepuff Second Years, no less! Whatever could they have done to you?"

"They...I'm sorry."

"Oh, no you're not."

"No, uh, I really am. I guess I shouldn't have...right." In my erratic mental state, Draco rather resembled James, which I simply couldn't deal with. In retrospect, I felt a bit bad about snapping at him, but once I get started I've got to go through with it. "Malfoy, I know how you've been taught, but...you simply can't do these sorts of things. You think those Second Years don't matter? In your world, they don't, but you matter in theirs. They're thinking about it right now, and they're pretending that it didn't matter, but...save your venom for people that matter, people that deserve it. Give me your word on that, it's a horrible habit."

"I...okay, I guess. I'll work on...that." He wasn't sneering anymore, but I still didn't feel particularly good about that little speech.

"Draco, don't go trumping that all up, I simply...how's that essay coming along?"

"Well..." He let it trail off into oblivion.

"Hm. That sounds somewhat less than promising. Keep working on it until it is perfect, you understand me? This is the highest level I teach, you need to keep up."

"I meant very well..."

"Oh, all right...but still, er, I demand perfection." Poor Draco, getting caught in the way of my predisposition towards conflict. If there's one boy who doesn't need conflict, it's Draco.

"Professor?"

"Yes?"

"Are you, er...I realize that this is probably not my place, but...are you feeling well, sir? You seem a bit off." I'd obviously given myself away with my uncharacteristic lack of tact and self-control, and I hadn't even considered the possibility. What a complete moron I can be.

"And what makes you say that, Malfoy?"

"Oh, I don't know...there's a flu bug going around among the students, and I hope you haven't caught it."

"Well, I'm not feeling under the weather at all, but I do appreciate your concern." I stood up. "I've got some preparation to do before my next class, so I must be off. Think some more about that position, will you? And remember what you promised. And, work on that essay. I don't want to see it a second early or a second late."

"Of course. Goodbye, Professor. Thank you." We left the office and went our separate ways.

Later that day, I'm sitting in my office with the door firmly closed attempting to focus on some potion samples when I hear an awful banging on the door. I ignore it, and it continues. Simply in order to stop the noise, I open the door and there's Albus. Does that man ever do his damn job?

"Severus! Did I wake you?"

"I have better things to do than nap, Albus. What is the problem?"

"No problem...Minerva, Poppy, and I are going out to dinner tonight in Hogsmeade, and we were wondering if you'd like to join us." I stared at him in disbelief. Him and Minerva—I'm convinced they're sleeping together, and the old bags deserve each other. Two horrifically boring, stunningly ancient Gryffindors having pathetically uninteresting missionary sex every Tuesday after Exploding Snap or whatever it is the elderly do for amusement. At any rate, Albus hasn't said anything interesting in the last seven years, and Minerva can kill any conversation just by glaring. While Poppy Pomfrey is, from my assessment, a good human being, I have serious doubts in her conversation skills. And besides, I'm simply not up for social engagements, and I generally avoid them even when I'm feeling well.

"Albus, I'm not interested in your little dinner party now, and I wasn't interested the last six times you informed me about a similar event, and I believe I've established enough of a pattern by now for it to not be necessary for me to beat you over the head with the simple idea that _I am not interested_. Now, was that all?" Albus sighed. God, does that man love to sigh.

"Severus, how have you been lately?"

"Well, Albus, other than the slow descent into utter madness, I've been doing well."

"Severus, I really mean it. Are you all right?"

"As a matter of fact I'm perfectly fine, but even if I were running through the halls of Hogwarts doing cartwheels my motivations would not be any of your business." We were still standing in my doorway, and there wasn't a convenient way for me to exit the situation.

"Are you still having problems with insomnia?" That took me entirely aback.

"Excuse me, I don't recall informing you about that."

"You wander the halls at night, Severus."

"And you don't?"

"Severus, you know, if you ever wanted to take a few days off that could easily be arranged..."

"I'm not in the least bit interested, Albus...what exactly are you getting at here? I have neither the time nor the patience for this."

"May I come in and sit down? It's awkward simply standing here."

"Hm. I believe that is the intended purpose." He smiled. Bastard.

"Severus, if this is not a good time for you, may we meet later?"

"Say what you mean now, Albus, and then let us both get on with our lives."

"All right, Severus...you've been in an awful mood lately, and if you'd like to get something off your chest there are many venues available to you."

"Such as yourself?"

"I doubt you would be open to that, Severus... I specifically mean a mental health professional of some type." I stood there a few seconds, completely uncomprehending as to how Albus could ask that without feeling entirely foolish.

"I'm perfectly fine, Albus...good day. Make your departure."

"Severus, I want you to consider it..."

"Get out of my office!" He slinked away, and that was that. A shrink. God. How needlessly horrible that would be. Sitting in a room with a complete stranger, dredging up memories...catharsis is a joke, an absolute joke, an implausible idea cooked up by lazy people who liked to hear the sound of their own voice. There simply aren't any viable options for me. I've accepted that, or at least I tell myself that I have. All I can do is manage to the best of my ability. Which, occasionally, betrays me. Such as now—it's all slipping out of my control. Maybe this really is descent into madness...sometimes I think I feel a hand gripping my shoulder or—even worse—caressing my cheek. Figments of a disturbed imagination, as they say. I try to tell myself that this all will pass—rationally, I know it—but it's so goddamn difficult to tell myself anything vaguely rational.

The duties of my job take it all out of me, and here, in the middle of the night, I can't control the memories. This one I can write down, I think, it wasn't horribly traumatic. He's beating me now, that's what I'm fixated on—I see my mother at the top of the stairs, she vanishes, a weak, sad ghost of a woman who never wanted a son. I can't imagine that woman feeding me as an infant, holding me, singing to me. She had a nanny do it all, I'm sure. Maybe that's why I'm such a wreck—mommy issues. Ugh, all this whining is sickening me, I need to quit immediately.


End file.
